


Never Did Run Smooth

by beetle



Series: Twenty Kisses [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Library, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Bad Flirting, Failboats In Love, First Kiss, Fluff and Humor, Idiots in Love, M/M, Sexual Tension, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-10-23 06:17:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10713900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: Written for prompt number eight fromthis list of twenty kiss prompts: “being unable to open their eyes for a few moments afterward,” and Stitchcasual's prompt of: “OMG I need a delightfully stern!librarian Adaar shushing obnoxious patron, Dorian Pavus (who is being obnoxious in order TO be shushed)”





	Never Did Run Smooth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stitchcasual](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stitchcasual/gifts).



> Notes/Warnings: Modern AU. No redeeming value.

“You, there! Librarian!”

 

At the markedly too-loud voice and snootily posh accent, Red froze, in the midst of shelving a so-so biography of Justinia IV. His thick, auburn eyebrows were the only bit of him still in motion—besides his suddenly accelerated heart-rate—inching up his forehead until they were halfway to his widow’s peak.

 

He didn’t even have to turn around to recognize that voice. He’d been hearing it with increasing and irritating regularity since he’d started his internship under the head librarian of University of Kirkwall’s library, last fall.

 

Now, in the middle of spring of his final year at University—mere weeks away from his degree in library sciences, Red (who’d been hoping to turn his internship into a full-time job at the UKL), suddenly decided he’d perhaps start searching for employment farther afield. If only to put some distance between himself and—

 

“I say: _you, there_ , librarian! The ginger one!”

 

Sighing softly to himself, Red carefully shelved the mediocre biography in the correct spot, then took a deep, steadying (not very) breath, before turning to face the bane of his existence. He pasted a professional, somewhat discouraging smile on his craggy face. Not that either smile _or_ face actually discouraged. . . .

 

“Professor Pavus. How may I help you, today?” Red asked quietly, but without deference. Deference to the pretty, peremptory faculty-monster had flown out the window quite early on, after the third time he’d had to put the man in his place regarding the speed with which certain rare texts—namely on the great empires of antiquity—could be acquired or borrowed from other universities.

 

All it had taken was for the choleric professor of Thedas history to begin raising his voice even beyond its normal, rather projected volume, to something approaching a terse screech, for Red to step from behind the checkout desk skirting it sedately, until he was looming over the smaller—slightly above average height—man. Professor Pavus’s eyes had widened and his diatribe had faltered into stunned silence as he gazed up and up—and _UP_ —at Red, craning his neck to do so.

 

At a brawny, hairy, muscular seven-foot-one—with a face like the offspring of an angry caveman and an even _angrier_ Viking, and eyes the exact color of the scrim of ice that formed on newly-paved sidewalks in winter—even in his dowdy work-clothes of button-down white shirt, brown sweater-vest, grey-twill slacks, and massive, broken-in penny-loafers, Red was, he knew, still quite the intimidating specimen. Even when he didn’t want to be.

 

(But when it came to Professor Dorian Altus Pavus, he most _definitely_ wanted to be.)

 

“Er . . . ah. . . .” Pavus had stuttered, his bright, dark eyes gone even wider and a bit glazed as he took in Red from his painstakingly tamed, auburn cornrows—five thick, neat plaits that added to the Viking-resemblance, and hung down Red’s back, even when braided—to his doorway-wide shoulders and four-by-four arms, to his tree-trunk legs and Sasquatch-feet.

 

“Please try to maintain a more moderate speaking voice, professor, as this _is_ a library, and many of the patrons come here to work without being disturbed,” Red had said in his quietest, most dangerously pleasant and polite voice, even as he furrowed his shelf-like brow.

 

“I—I—” Pavus had stammered with almost meek chagrin, his pupils dilating and his eyes somehow growing even wider. Then he’d blinked several times in rapid succession and flushed deeply, biting his lip and looking down at the carpeted floor between them. “Yes . . . of course. I beg your pardon for my . . . inconsiderate behavior,” the other man had said weakly, maintaining a white-knuckled death-grip on his briefcase and a thick sheaf of what had appeared to be mid-term papers. “When, ah . . . when will you expect the _Arlathonium_ in, do you think?”

 

Still that meek tone, which had surprised Red into silence. But only for a moment, before his auto-librarian took over. “As I said before, professor, we should have it from Orlais University within one week. . . .”

 

And Pavus had merely nodded without further complaint, then thanked Red before bidding him a gracious _good evening_.

 

Since that incident, in late November, the professor had been noticeably choosing his battles, rather than going to war with Red over every little inconvenience. In fact, the professor’s almost tolerable demeanor around Red was so noteworthy, that the other librarians and interns had a habit of letting Red and _only_ _Red_ deal with Professor Pavus, if he was on shift. Which he was, more often than he wasn’t.

 

And even though he still spoke louder than anyone of sense and consideration _should_ , in a heavily frequented library, he only rarely ever lost his temper to _Red_. And usually, when he did, Red would simply loom over the other man patiently, expressionlessly, and ask him if he’d like to discuss the problem further in private, where the other patrons wouldn’t be disturbed.

 

Pavus would flush, then blanch, then flush again, then backpedal at light-speed before making an excuse to end the conversation and hurry off.

 

 _Now_ , Pavus showed every sign of being in a right state: his face pink and a bit overwrought—but no less attractive, for that, Red was _not_ pleased to note—his eyes wide and wild, his perfectly-groomed brows furrowed and drawn together. His full, plush mouth was turned down in a determined frown.

 

 _Here we go_ , Red thought tiredly, psyching himself up to deal with more shit from his most problematic patron. After a full eight-hour shift of the same, and Comparative Religions with Professor Bard (who asked everyone to call her _Leliana_ and had a habit of reading large chunks of source material in her lovely, Orlesian lilt) before _that_ , Red wasn’t about to have any of Pavus’s guff. Not when the workday was exactly seventeen minutes away from being _over_.

 

“You can help me by telling me _why_ , exactly, I received an email from your library, informing me that you can’t get your hands on a copy of _Alchemical Histories_?” the professor ground out, his eyes flashing and narrowed, his perfect undercut nearly bristling. His shoulders were squared and stiff in his expensive tweed sports jacket, with its fawn-colored patches at the elbows. It was worn over a tan, v-neck sweater and distressed skinny-jeans so tight, Red could almost read the man’s religion. The look was completed by plaid Doc Martens that laced to halfway up Pavus’ shapely calf.

 

Pavus certainly had his own style, that was for sure. One that not only marked him as younger than most of his colleagues, but more in-touch with the cultural mores of his students.

 

Not to mention that he always looked pulled-together and meticulous . . . _gorgeous_ , really. . . .

 

“Well?”

 

At the impatient demand, Red realized he’d been wool-gathering while staring at Professor Pavus’s denim-showcased thighs for far longer than was polite or wise.

 

Dragging his wayward gaze decidedly _up_ and clearing his throat, Red met the angry professor’s eyes and cranked up that blandly forbidding, professional smile. “I apologize, Professor Pavus, but if you’ve received such an email, then that means that this library was unable to acquire a copy of _Histories_ from Orlais University. And, as you know, outside of OU, the only other university that might be willing to lend out a copy of such a rare and expensive book, is the State University of Tevinter, Minrathous.”

 

More narrowing, bristling, and now . . . sneering. “Yes, _I know_ that SUTM is the only other place to get it, but what I _want_ to know is why the _Orlesians_ aren’t ponying up one of _their_ copies? I know they have several!” Pavus said through gritted teeth, bobbing up on his toes briefly, as if attempting to meet Red eye-to-eye. The young librarian-in-training fought not to roll his eyes.

 

“I put the request in, myself, as you know, Professor. I also handled the Orlesian response. OU didn’t specify _why_ they chose to deny the request, only stated that that _particular_ book was for _reference only_ , and not being lent out to patrons or other institutions for the foreseeable future,” Red said neutrally, keeping his face expression-free, for the moment, though his eyes were, he knew, as icy and hard as frozen cement.

 

On any other day, during any other shift, that would’ve been enough to warn Pavus—if not actually cow him into stopping—that he was pushing Red’s buttons.

 

Perhaps, this evening, Pavus was _so_ angry, he was beyond caring what buttons he did or did not push, and to whom they belonged.

 

Indeed, the man seemed to be working up a fine head of steam, his face scrunched like an unruly toddler’s, his hands—for once, empty of briefcase and papers—bunched into petulant fists. He opened his mouth to let fly with something that was probably going to be insulting, annoying, entitled, or all three, but Red, with a flash of grim prescience, was ready with the very line that’d worked, last time.

 

“Please try to maintain a moderate tone, professor, as this is a _library_ , and the patrons come here to work without being disturbed,” he said in a voice that was more clipped and growling than he’d intended—a sure sign of his fatigue, this close to year’s end.

 

“ _Vishante kaffas_! I _am_ a patron!” Pavus declared, both loftily and loudly, drawing himself up to his slightly-more-than-middling height of five-eleven . . . as well as the attention of everyone in the immediate and not-so-immediate vicinity. Red sighed again at the irritated looks that then settled on _him_. “And I would _love_ to be able to work, too, but due to the incompetence of this department—though I shan’t name names—I’m unable to complete an important part of my research!”

 

“Professor Pavus—” Red began slowly, in a strained murmur, but Pavus cut him off with a curt, halting gesture.

 

“And if you’re about to ask if I’d like to discuss this in private, I do believe I shall take you up on that, at last. To spare your precious patrons my wrath—though I’ve no doubt they’ll be able to hear it no matter what cubicle or corner we move this to!” Pavus crossed his arms, and looked both triumphant and bloody-minded, as if he was calling Red’s bluff.

 

And Red did, in fact, falter for a moment. But only a moment, before his resolve and countenance hardened, and he crooked a thoroughly unpleasant half-smile at the professor, then swept his arm out, indicating that the man should proceed him toward the checkout counter and the offices behind them.

 

Looking somewhat startled and a bit wary, Pavus lifted his chin haughtily, spun on his heels, and swanned off through the stacks, Red striding resolutely after him.

 

#

 

Once Red shut the door to the head librarian’s office—Dr. Blackwall was away at a convention, and his assistant, Vivienne, had already gone home for the evening, citing flu-like symptoms—he turned to face Professor Pavus, wearing an expression best described as: _you wouldn’t like me when I’m angry._

 

Pavus, however, was facing Blackwall’s desk, bracing himself on the front-edge of said desk, with arms that shook and hands that clenched nervously. His head was hanging slightly, his shoulders and back tense.

 

Sighing, yet again, Red stuffed his nascent anger down and made one last attempt to resolve this without further escalation. “If you like, I can make a request to SUTM for the book but, as you may know, they’re far less accommodating about sharing their property with other nations, than Orlais.”

 

“Yesss,” Pavus hissed in a strange, tight voice. “I know that. SUTM is my _alma mater_.”

 

 _Ah_ , Red thought, understanding dawning on him. “So . . . you’re from Tevinter,” he muttered without thinking, then caught himself before he added: _That explains your high-handed attitude and rude behavior. . . ._

 

“Yes, I am.” Pavus’s voice was still tight and terse, but otherwise unreadable. Red idly wondered if the other man was considering taking a swing at him. If so, it’d be the last bad life-choice he’d ever regret. “My family helped _build_ the Old Imperium, as well as the current Democratic Republic of Tevinter. Does that surprise you?”

 

Red shrugged. Then answered, since Pavus couldn’t see the shrug. “Dunno. Should it?”

 

Pavus chuckled ruefully. “ _My_ . . . so _stoic_ , you Qunari are—I presume that’s what your ancestry is, based on your ridiculous size and frightening demeanor.”

 

Frowning, now, Red leaned back against the closed door to the office and crossed his arms. “My ancestry, yes. But _my_ family abandoned Seheron and the Qun generations ago. I’m _Vashoth_ by birth and choice—no more _Qunari_ than that desk-lamp.”

 

Pavus chuckled again, less ruefully and slightly amused, then sighed. “I suppose the centuries-old enmity between our peoples might go a long way toward explaining why you despise me.”

 

Surprised, Red blinked, his mouth dropping open in a gape. Then he shook his head. “I don’t despise you.”

 

“Pull the _other one_ , and see what tune it plays!” Pavus outright laughed, now. Red, however, was back to frowning. _Scowling_ , actually, and never mind that Pavus couldn’t see it.

 

“Are you suggesting that I’m a liar?”

 

“I’m _suggesting_ that the only reason you haven’t put my teeth down my throat is that you value your job more than you value the satisfaction of knocking me down a peg,” Pavus said matter-of-factly, and without anger. _Red_ was the one who laughed, now.

 

“Well, I won’t deny that. But that doesn’t mean I _despise_ you. And even if I did, I wouldn’t _lie_ to you about it. It’s not like you’d care, either way.” This time, Red was the one who sounded rueful, which both startled and dismayed him. “I’m . . . just an intern who’ll be long-gone, by this time, next year.”

 

For a minute, Pavus was silent, the atmosphere between them inexplicably charged. Then he was straightening up and turning around to face Red. His face was still flushed, but no longer upset.

 

“This might surprise you very much to know, Rupert,” Pavus said softly, contemplatively, closing the distance between them with uncertainty and hesitation, but no aggression. Red tensed up, anyway, a fact which did not go unnoticed by the professor, who smiled again, bland and bitter. “It might surprise you to know that, despite my lapses into temper and tantrum, I _do_ care what you think.”

 

Red—who was still getting over the shock of Pavus not only _knowing_ his _actual_ _name_ (instead of just the lifelong nickname that was even on his nametag), but also _saying_ it, and so easily, as if he’d practiced in the mirror, or something—shook his head again, more in confusion than in denial or negation.

 

“Why?” he asked, the purported reason for their private confab forgotten in his shock. “I’m not anyone of import.”

 

Pavus’ smile turned sad. “If _that’s_ what you think—if that’s what _I’ve_ given you cause to think—then I must apologize for my past behavior . . . including that of a few minutes ago. I was . . . upset because of . . . unrelated personal matters. Finding out I wouldn’t be able to complete my research as easily as I’d hoped was the final straw, as it were. I lost control of my temper. There’s no excuse for that. None, at all. But there’s the reason behind it. Please accept my sincere apology for causing a scene, and making what must be a difficult and exhausting job even more so.”

 

That said, Pavus held out his elegant, manicured hand for shaking.

 

It was another minute—possibly close to two—before Red could gather his wits enough to respond despite the continuing shock. He took a step closer, and another, as if to take the proffered hand, holding Pavus’s intent, steady gaze with his own.

 

“I—” he began, then fell silent, his left hand frozen a goodly distance away from Pavus’s right. For several eternal moments, he didn’t know _what_ to say . . . then, as if having an out-of-body experience, he heard himself speaking in a voice that was lower and rougher than his usual well-modulated tenor. “I’ve been waiting nine months for this,” he said, taking Pavus’s hand and yanking the other man to him. With a startled yelp, the professor stumbled forward, losing his balance, only to be caught by Red, hauled even closer, and kissed firmly on the mouth.

 

The kiss only lasted for a few intense seconds before it ended, and they were simply standing close to each other, swaying forward, eyes still closed as if reliving the brief contact.

 

Then Red squinted his eyes open a bit . . . then wider, still, when he saw Pavus was doing the same. Their gazes met, naked and knowing, a moment before they both jumped back as if surprised by their own lack of surprise. Red hit the door and Pavus hit Blackwall’s fanatically neat desk, his eyes wide and wondering, one hand flown up to his mouth, the other bracing him on the desk, once more.

 

“You—” Pavus let out a giddy, near-hysterical little giggle. “You’ve been waiting nine months to do _that_? To _kiss_ me?”

 

Red turned scarlet under his pale-olive complexion, then scowled. “I . . . I’ve been waiting nine months for you to _pull your head out of your arse_ , so I could kiss you. I don’t make a habit of rewarding spoiled, sanctimonious, obnoxious twats with kisses, you know.”

 

Pavus looked stunned for a moment, then grinned. Then _laughed_ , low and rolling and rich.

 

“Oh, _Rupert_ . . . you _are_ a bundle of surprises and contradictions, aren’t you?”

 

Huffing, Red crossed his arms again. “I was beginning to think I’d be waiting forever, too.”

 

“I . . . apologize, then. Forgive me for taking so long to get here,” Pavus said, suddenly solemn and sincere, pushing himself away from the desk, but not closing the distance between them. So, Red did that, himself, until he was looming over the other man again.

 

“If you don’t mind, professor, I’d like it very much if we could start over,” he murmured, matching Pavus’ solemnity and sincerity as he stared down into those deep, dark, sparkling eyes. The shine of them was rivaled only by the bright smile not far below.

 

“It’s _Dorian_ , actually,” Pavus said warmly, holding out his hand again and letting his eyebrows quirk in question. “And you are. . . ?”

 

“Rupert Adaar. But everyone just calls me _Red_.” After a slight hesitation, Red, took the hand on offer, shaking it firmly, but gently, never breaking gazes with Pavus.

 

With _Dorian_.

 

“ _Very_ pleased to finally make your acquaintance, Red.” Dorian’s smile widened and brightened, impossibly, and Red felt a pang in his chest and his gut—not to mention a tingle and tug in his groin—that was nothing, so much as a herald of his complete loss of chill.

 

“And I, yours, Dorian,” he exhaled, linking his fingers with the other man’s and trying on a smile of his own. “Er . . . I don’t suppose that—after my shift is over in about ten minutes—you’d like to . . . grab a coffee in the cafeteria?”

 

Dorian chuckled, licking his pouty lips. “Change that _coffee_ to wine and _cafeteria_ to a quaint little after-hours bistro I frequent, and . . . I’d _love_ to.”

 

Red rolled his eyes, but grinned. “You ‘Vints and your vino.”

 

“I _am_ the quintessential dyed-in-the-wool Tevinter,” Dorian agreed silkily, stepping in a bit closer to Red, who also followed suit, until they were sharing air and body-heat. “Such a shame, then, that I’m no more than a common ex-pat, these days.”

 

Red’s brows shot up. “You’ll pardon me for saying, Dorian, but there’s nothing at all _common_ about a Tevinter ex-pat. Or about _you_.”

 

Blushing, the professor bounced up on his toes and searched Red’s eyes before wrapping his free arm around Red’s neck and hauling him down so that they were once more within kissing-distance of each other.

 

“It’s a _long_ story,” Dorian murmured as their noses brushed and just before their lips touched. “Remind me to tell you while you make me breakfast in the morning. . . .”

 

“You’re assuming quite a lot,” Red huffed out breathlessly, when the kiss ended with them forehead-to-forehead, Dorian still on his toes, and Red still bent down and getting a crick in his neck.

 

“Oh, am I?”

 

“Yes. That I can cook, for instance.”

 

Dorian chuckled in relief after a moment of surprise, and settled back on his feet, gazing fondly up at Red. “You _are_ a delight,” he said with a hoarse sort of hungriness that made Red flush _all_ over, even as he wondered how in the Maker’s holy name they’d gone from near-fisticuffs over a rare book, to making out in Blackwall’s unbearably tidy office.

 

“I _am_ sorry about the _Histories_ , though,” he felt the need to say, but only because he genuinely was. Dorian shrugged, his smile turning to a grimace for a few moments.

 

“It’s of no moment. I have a . . . contact at SUTM, still, who may be able to get a copy to me for a short time. I’d rather _not_ have to cash in my chips with him, as it were, but desperate times, _et cetera_ , _et cetera_.” He shrugged again, the grimace melting into a smile that was both wry and hapless. “But enough about that, for now! Tell me what sort of wines you favor, and I’ll bet you five gold that we can find something to suit your taste within the hour.”

 

Red bit his lip and blushed. “I don’t really know much about wine. I don’t drink very often. . . .”

 

“Oh, _Red_ ,” Dorian sighed happily. “Sweet, _innocent_ Red . . . I’m going to have _such_ fun rubbing off on you . . . in _every_ conceivable sense of the term!”

 

Smirking and pulling Dorian close, once more, Red bussed the other man’s forehead lightly. “Not so sweet _or_ innocent,” he warned, leading Dorian to the door, his mind half on the library’s clean-up/lock-up routine, and half on whether his Spartan flat was even fit for company. Which further led to him wondering whether he even had the staples to make said company a hearty breakfast in the morning.

 

Then he decided that even if he _didn’t_ , the pub up the street _did_. And they _delivered_.

 

“Oh, and the feeling’s _entirely_ mutual, Professor,” he added belatedly, as they stepped into the narrow, truncated corridor that lead to the checkout area. He locked Blackwall’s office behind them and slipped his arm around Dorian’s waist, squeezing him close for a moment . . . before propriety and awareness of university regulations regarding fraternization forced them apart briefly . . . but _not_ very far.

 

Nor very _convincingly_.

 

Nor for very _long_.

 

 _Nor_ —as time and circumstance proved throughout years that were sometimes smooth, sometimes rocky, and usually a mix of both—very often.

 

END

Continues in [i was born sick, but i love it (command me to be well)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10747620)

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on [Tumblr](http://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com)!


End file.
